Final Request
by Maverickson
Summary: When House is carted off to Mayfield, Wilson can't forgive himself.


The first thing I send him is a bunch of coffee mugs.

I make sure to send the most recognizable ones- ones he's bound to appreciate, if only a little. There's my '#1 Dad' mug that he'd always gotten a kick out of, and my cancer mug that had been made by one of my patients that he'd always made fun of. A third one simply stated 'Cool James' which I think I remember him telling me was a song or something. I don't even remember where I got that one.

He's got to be at least a little flipped out considering how big and scary the Mayfield institution had looked on the outside. I have never quite managed to think that the inside was any different, either. Knowing House is on the inside picks at my nerves, terrifies me. It leaves me feeling downright miserable.

Of course, I really can't help but think that this is somehow my fault. How could I have believed him when he came in that morning, telling me he'd finally got from Cuddy what he'd wanted most? I'm a doctor, and I had actually believed that he'd gone through a twenty-four hour detox successfully. If I had noticed earlier, or even just talked to one of the fellows- I could have helped him. I could have stopped this from getting worse. Now, it was never going to get any better.

I get no word after sending the mugs, which just lets me know that he's taken them in.

So I continue shipping things out. I send him some of our favorite movies- the ones we'd watched more than once. The ones I, honestly, thought were kind of sentimental in regards to our long, Wilson-House friendship.

And, at first, I try to keep the mail monthly. It quickly becomes weekly- send House something from the apartment, get no response from him, search for what to send out next week. Eventually my motive becomes too urgent to hold off for one day a week. I end up sending House some random paraphernalia (often something largely useless) every other day. Then, against my better judgment, every day.

After two months, House responds. In angry, bold, black letters, he responds.

_Wilson- What the fucking hell? You need some of this stuff. I don't need it. -House_

He'd sent me back my last shipment- the television remote. I kind of smile when I see it, but I only repackage the device, this time adding a tube of toothpaste and my toothbrush.

I know I'm not okay. This isn't even a joke, or me comforting House. I'm serious about what I'm doing and I don't care if all I'm accomplishing, in the end, is _frustrating_ House. This is comforting to _me_.

I ship out all of my old photo albums. My laptop.

House responds every day now, but I stop reading what he's sending me, because I know he's just trying and get me to stop.

Cuddy comes to me one day, concerned, and I know I've been caught. There's nothing she can do, but I like that she's confronting me because it tells me that House has contacted her, desperate to get me some sort of help.

But I can't stop. It's an obsession now. One last thing to occupy my mind, which had very quickly begun to just wreck itself about a year ago. I wonder, as I package a t-shirt House had once tried to steal from me, if House had ever noticed.

In the last week, when I really almost had nothing left in the apartment that could be feasibly shipped out, I start sending notes with my odd, unsettling gifts.

_House- How are you? -Wilson_

_House- You were right, your team are a bunch of idiots without you. -Wilson_

_House- Cuddy misses you. -Wilson_

_  
_Each time I send one out, I spend the rest of the evening imaging how he might react. A lot of the reactions I come up with are angry. Many more are confused. Only one or two may be of him with the barest smile.

_House- I miss you. -Wilson_

It's when I send him my journal, which had only started the week after Amber's death, that he sends me an entire, four-paged letter.

I look at the letter as I package the very last possession and wish very much that I could bring myself to read it. He'd given me a picture frame just before I had to take him to the institution. It was a childish frame, with the words BEST FRIENDS FOREVER engraved into the fake silver. There was no photo, but House had ripped a piece of notebook paper to size and written on it "SAPPY PHOTO OF US HERE" and framed that. This was the last gift I would send- something he'd given me. Now, though, there was an actual, sappy photo of the two of us. It was old, and I'd always liked it too much to show it to him, because I knew he'd ruin it.

As I lay bleeding to death in the middle of the now bare apartment, Amber's apartment, I begin trying to imagine how he might look reading my very last words to him, taped on top of the picture I'd chosen to let him finally see. I wonder if he would just sit there and frown or if maybe he'd stopped reading my notes a long time ago, like I had with his. I smile a little, but I don't know why. There is nothing to smile about.

And that is why I have to die now.

As House reads the last note, he knows it is too late for him to do anything. He imagines all of the different ways that Wilson might be dead, but whatever has happened (bullet to the head, electric shock, overdose) he knows that Wilson has gone out alone, and that is what is really killing him.

Matters only become worse when House realizes that he isn't going to be able to comply to Wilson's last request. This becomes even more evident to him as he tries to read his friend's final words again, and can't. His eyes are too full of angry, disappointed tears. Not even his last request. He can't even do that.

_House- Just please don't cry. -Wilson_

END


End file.
